The last Briton on the streetHe's in a radio fuzzHe's dead and beatNo longer reflects our daft fateWe'll leave this cityHit a quick coach, take the town in SurreyThere's no-one here but crooks and deathKerb-crawlers,of the worst order

Where's the lay of the landMy sonWhat's the lie of the landMy son

Eldritch houseWith green mossSound of ordinary on the wavesTiles drip from its roofHome secretary has a weird look

Where's the lay of the landMy sonWhat's the lie of the landMy son

The good Book of JohnSurrounds the sonSound of ordinary on the wavesItalic scribble on horizonWhen the height of culture is a bad stewSpace bores, government disorderIndian clerk, low-calorie drinkWhere's the lay of the landWhere children circle in cyclesGiving jokes ad libBy bearded writersWho defected toHigher realmsAdvertising realms

Where's the lay of the landMy sonWhat's the lie of the landMy son

(People laughing..people fighting..people watching) Between the ticker and the mind lies an air-block of wind